May Day
by Rae Seddon
Summary: It's 1970 and two wizards are about to have their partnership shattered by war.


Young Wizards

Mayday

_Summary: The first and only time Tom Swale is ever tempted by the Lone Power._

Tom knows why Carl is there before he says anything—before the ubiquitous duffel-bag drops to the dorm room floor. There's only one reason either of them would pick up in the middle of exams to visit—and Carl always hitch hikes, he loves it, even when a single spell can bring him from Rochester to Boston in a matter of moments.

If this happens, they tell each other there will be no fighting it—no starving themselves out of existence, no chopping off fingers, no very convincing faking of mental disorders. The Powers do what they do for a reason and although neither is on errantry, there is no reason to believe one or both of them wouldn't be needed there. Wizards are always needed where It's work is the strongest, and Vietnam had been in It's plans for a long time.

Carl holds up the Draft notice with a resigned smile that is lost to a mustache and beard far larger than Tom remembers. Choking back a sob, Tom throws himself at Carl, his partner in the Art for almost a decade by now.

"When do you leave?" Tom asks, still smothering his perpetually clean-shaven face into his friend's scruffiness. "Do we still have time for...?"

Carl pries Tom off of him with a little effort—he smells like booze and maryjane, although the other knows it's second hand. As wizards they have always been careful about these things. Their minds mean too much to waste. Why trip and see purple unicorns when you can use wizardry to the same end? And the unicorns talk back?

"There's always time." The phrase seems to be missing a few syllables when he says it, and a particular emphasis—but Carl isn't talking to him like a wizard. Instead, he opens the duffel bag and takes out components he's been saving for close to two years, from when they decided to not fight the Draft. There's chalk and a knife, a raw hunk of hematite, string and a wand of bloodwood. Only the strongest binding spells required bloodwood. Once all of the components are assembled, they set to work drawing the diagram, the most complex they've ever attempted.

"Now about the names." Carl says, holding open his book to the proper page. "It's the life elements we want to combine, right?" He shows Tom the example in the manual and the other man studies it with pursed lips.

"Yes." Tom grabs a piece of paper and scrawls a ridiculously long set of symbols in The Speech down. "Like this."

"No," Carl writes a few symbols beneath the original, substituting and changing a few. "The connection can't be too strong because you might die _with_ me." He says the words with surprising calm. "This is a binding spell, not a pact spell." Although there isn't much difference, Tom wants to say. Not when it comes down to changing one or two characters.

"You're right, sorry." Tom says, and when the outline is finally finished, they write their combined names around the perimeter, chanting the entire time, calling the Powers into the room as witnesses. The wizardry has barely begun but already the air is crackling with energy. Once the naming is complete, Tom picks up the knife and cuts his palm, bleeding over the space where their names mesh. Carl does the same and a bright red light spreads through the rest of the circle.

Grasping Carl's bleeding hand in his own, they step through the circle together, exchanging only a single grave look before beginning. According to the manual, there are only a few spells that require calling on all of the Powers, including the Lone One. Any use of His power in Wizardry is considered unnecessarily dangerous unless the need is dire. Tom Swale has considered this dire for a long time.

Together, their voices ring out, echoing impossibly in the tiny room as the pressure around them grows, forcing them to brace against each other and the spell as the Powers work around them, wondering why now, they have all been called upon.

As always, the Lone One is the last to appear, and when He does, they do not offer the traditional greeting, but a more polite one, one Tom is sure It hasn't heard since the birth of the Universes.

_'All Powers we greet you as one, the Creators and Destroyer, the forces by which the Art is ruled. Our request is humble, a simple bond of blood, to tie us, two and two as one--'_ They speak their combined names, but as they do, Tom feels the Lone Power turn on him and smile. Each Power has to answer back before the speaking of the name is complete, and all but He has spoken. Refusing to despair, Tom continues reading, pacing himself with Carl, whose voice seems to be getting fainter and fainter by the second. A thrill of fear rips through Tom, and in that second, the Lone One makes his reply.

('Power I can give for this, and more. Power to quell the armies that threaten this most noble bond. Power to end this and every war after. Power to enthrall and command. Power none could stand against.')

Tom thinks about the news. He thinks about every protest he and Carl have gone to, about being doused with pepper spray in the Georgetown jail, about the napalm and cluster bombs and chemical weapons—about the idea of Carl going into that, _willingly—_and he's angry. He's been angry for a long time , he'd just kept it all in. But why _did_ Carl have to go? Why did any of them?

Something moves in the circle while Tom debates. His heart is wrenching dangerously in two directions, and they are coming to the most complicated part of the spell—all he needs to do is change a few characters and he really _can_ protect Carl from all of this...

A bright flash of scarlet and something that feels like feathers and air blazes at the center of the spell and suddenly the temptation is gone, replaced by a renewed sense of promise and purpose. Tom's whole body over-flows with it—a combination of joy, acceptance and peace. The Lone Power cries out, flickering like the edge of twilight before dawn. In another moment It is gone and Tom can see Carl in the scarlet light, clear as thought they are somehow in Timeheart—hands raise and squeeze tighter together as for a disorienting moment Tom can no longer seem to tell anything about Carl apart from himself—hearts, voices, thoughts, all meshing into a single entity. He wants to laugh and scream all at once, Voice trembling on the verge of this one last syllable—the one that will tear them apart and complete the wizardry.

When it happens, Tom, aware of _himself_ again feels as though he's had a limb ripped off. The hand that had been gripping Carl's burns and shakes terribly. For a long moment he only lays on the dusty hardwood floor, eyes shut. As a familiar voice batters at his ears, he groans.

"Tom, Tom!" Carl turns him over with one good arm. He looks thrilled and terrified at the same time. "Tom, are you alright?" The thick accent is almost indecipherable in it's panic. "When we...you...It..."

Somewhere in the room, something squawks. Shocked out of his pained stupor, Tom sits up with a yelp, bright eyes darting around the room to locate the source. He isn't sure what to think when he finds it—a bright scarlet, green and yellow macaw, perched lazily on a low dresser. There's something familiar about the animal although Tom knows that even for wizardry, that's ridiculous.

Shakily, the two wizards look at each other, then to the bird, who squawks loudly and starts to preen. Two equally stupid and amazed smiles light on their features and Tom asks:

"What are you going to call it?"

"It?"

"Her!" The macaw insists in a prolonged raspy voice.

To his side, Carl shrugs.

"Whatever she wants." One thick arm reaches over to envelope Tom in a tight hug. Flapping in place twice, the macaw glides to join them.


End file.
